i am thinking of her fingers as i type as she types cold moist and slow.. they way they gripped my skin eras ago... like kittens in the curtains all the hot nights with the doors open and the music on low.. insense and candels lighting the corners of her master bedroom.. and two little girls out of the bath into.. one big white cloud of a bed twenty pruney fingers twenty toes.. an unconventional jack and an unconventional rose.. and now that its over im looking back on that year i'm shaking my head and im hitting my pipe.. as i think of her fingers and type